


All the while you were in front of me I never I realized

by dragon_rider



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 00:16:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_rider/pseuds/dragon_rider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love—showing, feeling it—has never been Leonard's strong suit. Apparently, seeing it isn't either. It only took him about four years, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the while you were in front of me I never I realized

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [I just can't look, it's killing me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/524566) (it's really, really not a good idea to read this without reading that first).
> 
> Apologies for my crappy English and thanks for reading.

It all starts with a nightmare and the mad beating of his heart.

Leonard is drenched in sweat like he hasn’t been in years. He can’t quite tell what the dream was about and he’s grateful and resentful for his inability to remember anything besides the gaping hole in the middle of his best friend’s chest, gold stained in so much red it was impossible to pinpoint the right color unless you knew how it was supposed to look.

He’s hyperventilating. It’s not until he begins getting dizzy that he forces himself to get a grip. He breathes in squares—inhaling counting to four, exhaling doing the same—and it serves its purpose alright. He’s able to stumble out of bed and into the hallway without as much as leaning a hand against a wall every now and then. His steps are hesitant, like his feet are still so frightened they’re refusing to move properly, but he knows where he’s going.

It’s ass o’clock in the morning, even for a night owl like Jim insists on being—the damn kid won’t let him take care of him and refuses to adopt healthy sleeping habits no matter how much Leonard asks, pleads and cuss about it—so he doesn’t bother ringing at the door and simply uses his override code to come into the Captain’s quarters.

Jim likes to sleep with a constellation on top of his head, the ceiling of his room filled with stars and galaxies of all kinds so it’s not pitch-black in there. Once his eyes get used to it, it’s actually reassuring and he finally starts breathing normally as he takes in the integrity of his friend and the quiet, peaceful way he’s sleeping.

He’s lost there for who knows how long, the moment stretching out as much as his need to be with a whole and alive version of Jim. He snaps out of it when Jim shifts in the bed, sighing in his sleep as he settles on his side instead of on his back, this time facing Leonard fully.

It’s almost like Jim senses him and curls around the palpable fear he still feels, trying to shield him from it, from how much the mere thought hurts in a way that makes him stop breathing until he has to chant to himself _it was a dream, just a dream, he’s fine. He’s fine._

Staring doesn’t seem enough when more images of the nightmare flood his mind. He reaches out, kneeling beside the bed, and allows his fingers to grasp, to feel. Jim’s eyelids flutter and he’s so focused on convincing himself everything’s fine that he doesn’t notice he's woken up until his friend’s soft, raspy with sleep voice reaches his ears.

“Bones,” Jim smiles a bit as he stirs. It’s like a burn; Leonard stands up, removes his hand from Jim’s face and curses the blush spreading on his cheeks. Jim furrows his brow and does some stare of his own but he doesn’t ask what he should ( _what are you doing here?_ What _were you doing?_ ), opting for a simple, concerned, “What is it?” as he sits on the bed, a hand stubbornly rubbing the sleepiness off of his eyes.

It’d be so easy to explain, to get Jim’s understanding about what forced him to bother him, what’s still mercilessly scratching him raw from the inside out as he stands there, incapable of tearing his eyes from the spots on Jim’s forehead and cheeks and jaw he was caressing just a minute ago and yet he can’t bring himself to do it. The words aren’t coming to his mouth because they’re not forming in his head first and it’s stupid how distracting the tingle in his fingertips is, how it’s absorbing, consuming him leaving nothing but white noise and a new sense of dread behind it.

“Hey,” Jim beckons him, doesn’t bother with waiting for an actual reaction and just pulls him towards the bed with a firm grip on his forearm, “It’s okay, it’s fine, don’t tell me, just sit here with me. Breathe, Bones.”

Jim isn’t satisfied until Leonard is lying on his bed with his back against the headboard. He goes to the replicator in the other end of his quarters and comes back with a glass of cold water for Leonard to sip, which he does in small gulps, his eyes darting from the way his hands are trembling to the impossible open and caring way Jim is gazing at him.

 “Nightmare, huh?” Jim says at length, sitting back on the bed next to him, his shoulder brushing and almost leaning against his own.

It’s not a question, not really, and Leonard is amazed because no one _ever_ , not even Jocelyn, has been able to decipher him so fast, so effortlessly before.

Leonard’s never been one for melodrama but he thinks quietly, secretly to himself that if he dies tomorrow a fitting inscription for his grave would be _the blindest man who ever lived._

“Not talking about it always helps me,” Jim utters between a yawn and Leonard remembers all the times when Jim asked him to just tell him anything after waking up kicking and screaming in their dorm back at the Academy, how he went back to sleep with nothing but Leonard’s drawl to soothe him.

He’s not listening to the words, to the story Jim picked to try and give him back some sense of safety, of calmness. He wants to, but he’s too busy reeling with this new knowledge, this awareness of how much of an emotional stunted jackass he can be.

If he hurts just two people by trying to mend things, it’s going to be two too many.

“Jim,” he cuts in suddenly, “I, I need to go. I’m sorry—for waking you, I’m sorry.” _I’m sorry for everything, God, I hope you can forgive me._  
His friend shakes his head, squeezes his shoulder one more time before settling on his stomach, the loose t-shirt he’s wearing leaving the dimples on his back casually exposed in the dim light and it’s not a good moment to admire the seamless curves of his body, it isn’t at all, “Don’t be. I’m glad you came to me, Bones. Try to get some sleep, okay?”  
The fact Leonard knows just how heartfelt that statement is doesn’t make things better. At all. “Yeah, sure. You too.”

He slips back to his own quarters, can’t get fast enough to the privacy and shelter of the bulkheads around him before he buries his face in both hands and thinks, not for the first time in his life, that he’s not meant to be with anyone, that he can’t ask anyone to put up with him because love—showing, feeling it—has never been his strong suit, because he’s too many messes and too little blesses to allow himself to be that selfish.

Jim’s been acting so strange lately—remaining somewhat distant, but always at the reach of his hand, smiling a little too forced, a little too much with too many teeth and too little heart, doing wonders to hurt himself even in the confines of his own ship by spending too much time in the gym accepting lessons in fencing from Sulu and also giving them in Hand-to-Hand—hyperactive doesn’t cover it, not really, and Leonard _knew_ , he fucking knew something was awfully wrong but didn’t prod, just assumed Jim would talk to him about whatever it was once he was ready.

But how could he be ready? How could Jim talk to him about facing every day the tacit rejection Leonard didn’t even notice he was giving, too preoccupied with being back in the game and doing it right to pay attention to the confession shining bright in Jim’s eyes, to see how Jim’s lips tighten around _Barrows_ and _so how did your date go_ and _you wanted to spend shore leave with her, right? I made all the arrangements._

Knowing he’s the reason Jim’s been running himself to the ground does nothing to help him sleep, of course, and the night isn’t long enough for him to decide whether Jim is just too much for him and he should pretend he never saw what could bloom between them or if he simply doesn’t have any right to choose for them both, to decide whether they deserve a chance or not, if their friendship is going to survive the bumpy ride or die crushed by the weight of all their individual and combined issues.

Tonia is, amazingly, the easiest part of it all. She takes his hand in hers, smiling softly all the way through Leonard’s break up speech and sea of apologies, and when he’s done, she kisses his cheek, squeezes his hand, and murmurs, “If you’re going to beat yourself up every time you have fun, Leonard, you’re going to drive yourself crazy. We had fun and now it’s over. This is how things end sometimes. It’s nobody’s fault.”  
“Tonia,” he breathes, marveled, “But I—“  
She kisses him on the lips then, Leonard isn’t sure if just to shut him up or as a proper goodbye. “I’ll be fine. Take care of yourself, Leonard.”

Leonard keeps showing up in Jim’s room the rest of the week. Jim always seems surprised and pleased to see him, never takes him for granted, he’s never had—not after Nero, Leonard realizes bitterly, and adds yet another mistake to his list of amends to make.

Jim grins, genuine and wide, and Leonard didn’t ask for it but it’s all for him and it’s been there for longer than he can guess even if he tries to measure it by the underlying sadness and resignation in that candid gesture.

As the days pass by, it gets easier to look at Jim. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, there’s still a chance for them if he can get past his guilt and Jim can get past the pain he’s caused him.

There are several ways he could be apologizing, but Leonard chooses to return things to the way they were before Tonia, before he had to split his time between her and Jim. He watches as Jim takes him back and tries not to twist in impatience because he lost the right to do it the moment he first said no to Jim, the moment he brushed off his friend’s interest as nothing but attraction and doomed the very thing he’s pursuing now.

“How come you’ve been around so much?” Jim asks him one night. They’ve been quiet, both of them too engrossed in their separate work to engage in real conversation but with the way Leonard’s come to cherish Jim, his company alone is more than enough for him.  
“What, you complaining about it?” he replies, the smartass remark more of a reflex than an actual thought and he curses it right the second Jim flinches because of it.  
Jim just asks again, “What about Barrows? I thought you were happy with her, Bones. You looked happy. What happened?”  
Leonard shakes his head, pushes to the back of his mind the past tense of that sentence to let it gnaw at him later, “There’s a difference, Jim,” he says, “You can be happy with someone or just have a good time with that person.”

Jim frowns and stares, like he doesn’t understand it at all. The red alert blares, interrupting them, and they both run to their battle stations, too busy for the next couple of hours to see each other but not too busy—at least not on his part—to not think of Jim, to hope the idiot doesn’t get hurt this time. It’s a vain hope, that he knows, but he hopes all the same, hopes he can heal another type of wounds already scarred and old in Jim, if not now, then later on, hopes to get enough time for that and more, hopes that none of them dies, not today.

Jim ends up with only a mild set of burns in his forearms and face, though the sight of him with thin patches of skin falling off his face is enough to leave Leonard breathless and unmoving for a long, excruciating second, until the tricorder tells him they're only second degree and that he can fix it, thank God.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, already working on Jim’s cheeks, “I can’t leave you alone for a goddamned second, can I?”  
“Ow,” Jim whines, his hands holding tight the front of the bio-bed, his breath hitching because of course he’s allergic to every local anesthetic known to men, “I didn’t actually make the console blow in my face on purpose, Bones, there was— _ow_!”  
“Shut up. What if some of these scar, Jim? What then?” he knows the burns aren’t deep enough for that, but he’s pissed. Pissed at himself because he got scared and pissed at Jim because apparently he’s still not getting the _hey I’m the Captain I’m not supposed to be fixing broken and unstable things in my ship_ memo.  
“Then I’ll have scars,” Jim shrugs and adds, impressively obnoxious despite the way his lips are pursed against the ache the regenerator is causing, “Chicks dig 'em.”  
“Yeah, well, too bad,” Leonard spits out, ignoring the way he sounds pathetically jealous of non-existent rivals as he does his job, his left hand gripping Jim’s chin firmly as he treats the more sensitive skin on his cheekbones. It’s a wonder his eyes didn’t suffer. He guesses he has to thank Jim’s good reflexes for that. “You’re not getting any scars, not on my watch.”  
“Careful, Bones,” Jim teases, grimacing when he tries to raise his eyebrows, “I might think you like my face a little bit if you keep acting like that.”

Leonard bites his tongue. He can’t remember a time when he’d wanted to take the bait so badly as he does right now, but he doesn’t. He swallows down hard, swallows down everything he longs to say, knowing it’s not the right time or place to say any of it. He finishes fixing Jim and threatens to sedate his reckless ass for a week if he doesn’t get some sleep and drinks lots of water to help his body recover. Jim curses under his breath, but his shoulders slump and Leonard knows he’s won this round and lets him go.

The next time they’re alone, work scattered around them but mostly forgotten as they sit on Jim’s couch, Jim’s side caressing his with warmth, Leonard foresees the conversation they’re about to pick, about to start again right where they left it, so his heart doesn’t quite jump to his throat but he does stiffen, still unsure about not where he wants to go but how he’s supposed to do it without everything crashing down around them because of the weight of his feelings and how late he’s been to accept them.

“I don’t understand, Bones,” Jim mumbles quietly, almost sleepily from his shoulder, “How can you have a good time but not be happy? How are those different things?”

Leonard wonders if Jim’s ever been happy, if there was ever a time in his life where he got to be just a kid. He can’t think of anyone who deserves it more and yet he’s almost certain that Jim hasn’t, that if he was ever able to have a good time then it was brief and poisoned with so much guilt it never served its purpose—it never raised Jim’s spirit but just got it heavier, binding Jim down to the only things he thought he was worthy of.

Jim doesn’t know either. It’s clear as crystal and more heartbreaking that he ever thought it’d be. Leonard tightens his arm around Jim’s shoulders and lets out a ragged, long breath. He kisses the tip of the fair head so softly he doubts Jim can feel it and thinks if there’s a way to explain such an abstract concept without sounding like he’s quoting a fancy book.

“Sometimes,” he settles at last, “You don’t have to be having fun to be happy, Jim.”  
Jim huffs and looks up from his place on his shoulder. He’s frowning and staring at him like he’s trying to figure out if Leonard’s pulling his leg. “Jesus, Bones,” he laughs then, his eyes dazzling with playfulness, “Sometimes you can sound as old as you feel, you know that?”  
“Damn it, Jim. I was trying to be serious. I don’t know why do I even bother with you.”

Jim just keeps laughing at him as he stands up and pours them more of the liver-killer mixture Scotty’s been brewing. It tastes god-awful but the burning it provides is real so Leonard gulps it down, grateful for it as much as he’s for Jim’s reaction to his answer and the subject they were touching.

God knows he can’t take it lightly, least of all right now when all that he wants is to cradle Jim in his arms and _show_ him what happiness is but he's so goddamned terrified that it might be too late for that. Too late for them.

Today is not the day for finding out, though. Today and the days to come are for him to stitch the wounds he created, to wait and see if he’s only added to Jim’s scars instead of healing them or if it’s a compromise and he’s mended here and injured there.

There’s a big difference.

What they can be—what they are—hangs in the balance.

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel: [I can't stop holding on, I need you with me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/690756).


End file.
